A Cry in the Night
by Tesora
Summary: [Part 1 of Series] In the future, scientists have uncovered ways to find who you really belong to, that is, who your soul-mate is by ways of a scar, or "Mark", forming somewhere on your body. Join Alfred Jones as he discovers secrets about the scar and his discoveries about himself.


**AN: I haven't given up on TLoaF. I'm still researching but this idea didn't leave, so I've got two stories going on. And no internet at the moment, so I'm at a friend's house uploading this. Hopefully we get internet soon. In the meantime I'll keep writing chapters for both TLoaF and this new series.**

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It's the year 2067, not much has changed (But we live under water.)

No, to be honest, nothing has changed. However, in the past twenty or so years, scientists have discovered something called soul-mates. Yes, they're exactly what you're thinking of. Your missing half. Your partner. The reason behind your existence. You learn from puberty who your partner is. You learn their name at least, which, unless your mate's name happens to be something extremely unoriginal and common, helps narrow down all of the assholes, or ends up shattering barely begun relationships.

How do you learn? A small scar appears on your skin. It can be anywhere, but most common is your shoulder right above your heart. It's hardly visible, depending on your skin colour. I have pretty tan skin so my scar shows pretty well. If you're an albino, I suppose it'd be hard for you to even see it yourself. That's how a few of my friends are, but that's their own story to tell.

Oh! I should introduce myself. The name is Alfred F. Jones. I used to tell people that the "F" stood for Freedom, but as I grew older, it started standing for "Fucking." I'm not fond of my middle name. Alfred Fred Jones. My mother was a pretty cruel woman, rest her soul. As I stated, you learn who your soul-mate is pretty early. Mine? You'll learn soon enough. Let's go to when my scar appeared. Now imagine: a thirteen year old, a lot of chub and a loud mouth. This is where my story begins.

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"_Alfred Jones_!" My teacher shrieked as my head lulled to the side. My eyes shot open, cornflower eyes bleary and unfocused. "Please read the next paragraph."

"Sorry, teach. Can't. Don't know where we are, don't even know what this book is," I informed her. At least I'm honest. She sighed at me, impatience showing before moving onto the next student. It's not that I didn't care, I did. It's just English wasn't my forte. Science. The ever changing Science. That's what I was most interested in. I even planned on being a scientist and finding new cures for diseases—though most have already been cured by this point—and new ways of helping save lives. Sure, I could have been a doctor, but they're stuck in one skill. They're repetitive. I can barely focus on Health class, so how would I be able to pass eight years of Medical School?

Class ended and I trudged outside. My shoulder had been hurting all day, a sure sign that the "mark" was coming. I had heard horror stories of feeling each letter of the name be stabbed into your skin, an invisible blade slicing to form each curvy letter. If your name happened to have all sharp, straight letters, you were considered lucky. There was no blood, according to the older students, but it would feel like you were bleeding for days.

I wasn't sure if I believed them.

Walking to the bathroom, I pulled my shirt collar down. "A". That's all that was revealed. It was annoying at this point. My shoulder had been saying that for the past week. Not that it gave me much information; the name could have belonged to the last name. But either way, hopefully it wouldn't be a long name like Annabella Washington. That much achiness would probably kill me. I shook my head and walked to my next class, one where I could and had to focus. Chemistry.

Walking into the classroom, I threw my book-bag down beside me and sat in the least gum-filled chair possible. I wasn't technically supposed to be in this class, being thirteen and all, but due to my grades I had managed to skip and learn with the fifteen year olds. Most of who taught me about the soul-mates curse/gift.

"Can you actually believe he doesn't have a Mark at his age?" a voice tinkled in laughter. Veronique Brisbane. I didn't like her. She was snobby and crass. If there was any sign of her being my soul-mate, I'd have offed myself fast. Luckily the A had been capitalized, and if I recalled correctly, Veronique's middle name was Elizabeth. Not that it mattered anyway. Her Mark was on her waist which was proudly on display for all to see. Eric Steillson. Poor bastard. If I remember right, Eric had a brother, Emil, who was off studying in China... I wonder idly who his Mark was. It was probably the weird foreign exchange student we had for a semester who only liked Chemistry because he could blow things up. He only lasted a semester _because_ of the reason actually.

"I know. What an absolute loser. If there's any sign of being alone until you die, it's not having a Mark," her friend, Natasha Ramirez, replied. "Or worse: having only half of one!" The two girls laughed, leaving me in confusion.

Class was starting at that point and I knew I needed to focus. In the back of my mind, I wondered what having only half a Mark appearing meant… And, unfortunately, when something caught my attention, I tended to keep my thoughts consistently on it. I couldn't stop. Half of a Mark? The older students never told me about that. Was it rare, or was it just a taboo conversation that nobody wanted to bring up?

And then it happened.

Barely halfway through the class I collapsed. My shoulder felt like it was on fire, and I could hear some of the older kids murmuring and nodding. One kind soul, Isaac Kirkland, carried me to the infirmary where I lay arching and trying to get away from the burning. It hurt! It hurt! I didn't care that I was breaking down like a baby at thirteen. You try dealing with what felt like your entire torso being torn into tiny pieces of ribbon that one would only see tied to balloons.

As though I was imagining it, it was over as fast as it came. My body lay sweating, clothes soaked and (perfect, minus the stupid strand that wouldn't stay down no matter how much gel I used) hair ruined. My glasses lay askew on my cheekbones while my lungs gasped for any sign of breathing ability. Isaac had stayed there. He was the brother of one of my friends', Arthur. Isaac was an asshole, but once you got to know him, you realized he only did it because it was a way to show his dominance and protect you from bullies.

"You okay there, kid?" He asked, his Irish accent slipping through. He already knew I was, though, and was only asking out of courtesy and perhaps even a little bit of habit. I _did_ tend to get into a bunch of fights, after all.

"I think so." Hell, even I knew I was. It was just the Mark. I pulled at my collar to see if the name completed itself or if I would have to go through any more pain. Thankfully, it had completed itself.

_Arthur Vincent Kirkland_.

Oh, _fuck_.

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**Not sure if I like this, but whatever. I've edited it like thirty times already and I feel like I'm going to keep messing it up, soooo.**

**Critiques?**


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